


Extracurricular Endeavors

by CypressSunn



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Biting, Desk Sex, Experienced Dom/Inexperienced Sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, vocal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressSunn/pseuds/CypressSunn
Summary: Eliot keeps odd office hours. Quentin tries to raise his grade point average.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 9
Kudos: 91
Collections: 101 Prompts Meme, Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Extracurricular Endeavors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirarlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirarlas/gifts).



> 101 Prompt #22: Confessions

Rumor has it, the southern block off the main Brakebills building had a near-nightly lapse in security wards. A residual quirk in the enchantment; something to do with circumstance, global warming or rising sea levels that didn’t exist back in the day. It left the lecture halls open and commutable long after classes were dismissed. In the hours between sunset and half-past four, no one could track who came and went behind the shuttered windows. 

While minimally interesting, this fact had never been of any use to Eliot Waugh. Not until the night his boyfriend, Quentin, red-faced and mortified, confessed his most closely guarded fantasy under the covers— so quiet and jittery that Eliot didn’t hear him the first time.

After the bedroom confession and much encouragement from Eliot, all the pieces fell into place. Them waiting until midnight, both sneaking out of the Physical Kids’ Cottage at separate times, blacking out the facility’s annex windows with anti-illumination charms. Then proceeding to the double doors of Lecture Hall 13 and down the tiered student seating. There, Eliot slots himself behind a perfectly centered desk and the chalkboard. He debates taking the lecturer’s podium for its gravitas but settles for the broad wood desk. Polished, stern, commanding; everything Eliot is looking for to give Quentin exactly what he wants.

As a stage itself, the desktop needs very little dressing. All at once, Eliot conjures up paper stacks, a well of ink pens, a coffee mug, and an antique rotary so old he has to blow the dust off it. From a random drawer he plucks out a stuffy textbook on the historical Arabian-Avalon spell trade treaties; he adds to the corner just for a touch of authenticity.

Details, details; it’s all in the little things, Eliot thinks to himself, smug and satisfied with it all save for the adjustable height of his hard-backed swivel chair. It only strikes him that he is missing his finishing touch once he hears Quentin’s lone, encroaching footsteps. With a flick and snap of his fingers, a piece of chalk levitates in the air. It etches a cursive title over the black slate board behind him; _Professor Eliot Waugh, Advanced Magical Circumstance and Consequence._

The meek creak of the hallway doors fills the quiet room and Quentin soft-shoes his way down the stairs. Part of the resistance is the act required from their predetermined script, but Eliot can see the apprehension is real. Quentin is still afraid of being heard as if there was _any_ chance of them being caught. Eliot triple checked his work on the soundproofing spell and was more than diligent in the casting. After all, Eliot would never let anyone else see Quentin in the state he planned to leave him in.

“Pr— Professor Waugh?” Quentin mutters, voice caught in his throat. He rubs at the back of his neck. “I was wondering… Do you have time to speak with me— or…”

Eliot hums, bored. He does not look up from his stack of papers where he scribbles furiously over and over; _all work and no play makes eliot a dull boy_. His inattentiveness already has poor Quentin in knots, fidgeting and swaying where he stands. It shouldn’t be this easy but Eliot loves it every time.

Quentin swipes a loose bit of hair behind his ear and tries again. “It’s about, I wanted to talk to you about—”

Eliot slaps his pen down, irritation evident and startling. Quentin nearly jumps an inch into the air. “You’re mumbling. Speak up or stop wasting my time.”

Quentin can’t meet Eliot’s eyes. “My grade, sir… I wanted to go over my grade.”

Eliot folds his hands over his desk. “It’s a little late in the semester for that, don’t you think?”

“I don’t follow… A little late for what?”

“For only just beginning to be concerned about your standing in my class. You’ve been attending my lectures for several months, no? and I don’t think you’ve learned a thing.”

Quentin’s mouth hangs open for a moment, floundering with what to say next. He doesn’t make a sound as he wrings his hands, the same way he does when he’s overthinking. Because of course, he’s overthinking it. Abrupt as anything, Quentin is out of the scene and pacing the floor.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he brings his hands together in a T shape. “Time-out. Just how _bad_ am I doing in this course that getting on my knees to suck your dick is the better alternative to doing extra credit?”

Eliot blinks.

“Seriously? You want to stop mid-scene to hash out the particulars to your professor fetish?”

Quentin flushes red. “Don’t _say_ it like that!”

Eliot spins in his chair, bemused and grinning. It took a lot of work to convince Quentin that his fantasy was nothing to be ashamed of — with Eliot’s sole caveat being that kink had not been brought out by Mayakovski. He would _not_ under any circumstances play at a Russian accent, a hardline deal- breaker. Otherwise, everything about the idea of an academic fetish is so predictably Quentin. A whole but corruptible geeky fantasy. It fit right up there with the Luke and Han scene they played out in their conjured Millennium Falcon. But getting Quentin on board was always half the battle. The other half was the minutia. 

“All I’m saying is, am I close to failing? Are you grading on a curve?”

“A curve? Would that be the one set by your imaginary classmates?” Eliot chuckles. “Do you want to see the fake student registry?”

“Yeah? I don’t know, maybe?” Quentin huffs on and fidgets with his cuffs.

“Oh, you’re cute when you spiral,” Eliot teases, knowing it will only further embarrass him. But it’s not the way he’s planned on embarrassing Quentin all night. Not the way he’s been looking forward to. With a wag of his finger, he beckons his faux-pupil. “C’mere.”

After a moment, Quentin acquiesce, slipping around the desk within reach where Eliot’s hands can smooth over his wrinkled button-down. From this close, Quentin can probably smell the liberally applied cologne Eliot chose for just the occasion. A concoction with notes of tobacco, old ink, and broken dreams, or whatever else mid-tier academics smelled like.

Eliot is toying with one of Quentin’s buttons. “Q, nobody wants you to indulge in this filthy code-of-conduct-breaking fixation more than I do. But you have got to relax. Let the scene play out. How else am I going to take full advantage of your innocent academic needs?”

“I am relaxed,” Quentin mutters tensely, “and what’s so wrong with wanting specifics?

Eliot nods, ducking down to mouth along Quentin’s neck. “Well, maybe your motivation isn’t your grade. Maybe you’re just terribly infatuated with your strict, strikingly handsome and well-endowed instructor.”

Quentin makes a disagreeing noise.

“What? is that not _lurid_ enough for you?”

“I just… I don’t want sappy and love-struck.” Quentin shrugs. “I mean, if I wanted to have sex with the guy that loves me, we could just stay in the Cottage, like every other night. No heavy-duty sound suspending enchantments involved.”

Eliot leans back, eyes alight with dark realization. “You want sex with someone who _doesn’t_ love you.”

Quentin squirms, looking caught. “I—”

“You want sex with someone who only wants to use you.” Eliot feels a giddy rush, a want pulsing through him. He had been on board with the whole sexual exercise from the start, but _this_ he had not anticipated. “You want for someone to treat you like you’re just a mouth or just something to spread you over a desk. You want someone who will use you just because he can… because you can’t say no.”

Quentin swallows then lifts his gaze slowly. There is an abashed acceptance to his features. But likewise, a clear understanding of what he is asking Eliot to do. 

“Oh, Q, you should have told me from the start,” Eliot purrs. “But you still don’t know how to ask, do you?”

Quentin shook his head. His hair falls over his face again, framing those trapped but eager eyes. Breathless, alert, hanging on every word, Quentin's tastes and desire far outweighed his experience. Eliot would have to take exceptional care in taking him down, in putting him back together again.

But fuck, if he didn’t just want to devour him on the spot. “If you could only see yourself now, Q. You look—”

“I look how I always look,” Quentin sulks, hands in his pocket, wearing that timid little look Eliot wants to turn inside out.

Eliot licks his lip. “Alright, Q, you march right back up those steps. We’ll take it from the top.”

Quentin looks uncertain. “Are you sure? We could still—”

“Are you safe-wording me?” Eliot asks, prim and seated again behind the desk.

“No?” Quentin starts before gathering himself. “No. I’m not.”

“Then you should do what you’re told.”

Quentin bites his tongue and does as instructed. 

A stillness follows his footsteps. There is a held pause all around them that refuses to exhale. Anticipation bouncing off the paneled ceiling and flirting down the aisles. Eliot tuts a little spell dimming the lights and picks up his pen, back in the scene with his busywork.

It isn’t long before Quentin is before him again, clearing his throat.

“Pr- professor Waugh? I tried to find you in your office but—”

“I prefer the lecture hall for my office hours,” he interrupts. It’s harder to play at ignoring Quentin this time. Knowing what he knows, knowing just how he wants to debauch him.

“I wanted to see if you had any extra credit opportunities,” he asks.

“Did you, Mister…?” Eliot sits back, waves his hand with a searching motion,

“Quentin. Quentin Coldwater?”

“Mister Coldwater, you should know I don’t offer extra credit.”

“Could you please make an exception, sir.”

Eliot raises a single brow. “Do you think _exceptional_ is a qualifier anyone would associate with you?”

Quentin winces. But he shivers, too. It’s a low blow, but Eliot is unrepentant. 

“Please, Professor, could you just please give me a chance? I need this grade. I need it.” He’s begging. Begging is good. Eliot can work with this.

Sitting back in his chair, Eliot takes one final cue from every lecturer he’s ever sat in on; he winds up for his monologue.

“Let me explain something to you, Mister Coldwater. I see students like you every year. The ones who start so shiny and new… so innocent. Unbearably in love with Brakebills and thinking magic is the answer. That magic will save you. But when it comes down to it, you just don’t pass muster. You can’t keep up with the coursework or with your peers. And no amount of wishful thinking will change the fact that whatever little magical talent you had in the beginning just doesn’t cut it.”

Quentin gulps, breathless. His shoulders are low, visibly excoriated. He inches closer. “Sir, I can’t flunk out. I can’t.”

“There is not much I can do for you, Mister Coldwater,” Eliot tuts back.

“But there has to be something,” Quentin continues. His desperation leaves nothing to the imagination. “I am begging you, I will do _anything_.”

Elio’s been waiting for that one. The signal that foreplay is over. Quentin’s is satisfied, ready.

“Anything?” Eliot pretends to meditate on the ammunition he’s just been given. Quentin affects a terrified, anxious look, complete with failing self-soothing motions. Impressive method acting, really. With a sudden dark realization, Eliot waves at the lecture door, it latches shut with an echoing metal thud.

“Quentin, the remedial work I have in mind is… intensive. It will be demanding. There can be no room for second-guessing or any change of heart. Do you understand?”

Quentin nods, quick and greedy.

“Good.”

Eliot rises and saunters around the desk to where Quentin stands. He leans against the desk, towering over the other man.

“Open your mouth.”

“Wh— Professor?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Quentin’s jaw hangs open wide. Gripping his jaw with his hand, Eliot plows his thumb past Quentin’s lips. “So he can be taught,” Eliot marvels to himself. “There may be hope for you yet.” Quentin gags almost imperceptibly, eyes rounded in shock at the intrusion.

“Suck.”

Quentin sucks hard on the probing digit, working his mouth and tongue with practiced ease that he still manages to make look scared, frantic, but contrite. Eliot trades his thumb for his index and middle finger, pushing in farther as Quentin laps and laves past the second knuckle. He never shows the non-verbal safe signal, not even when Eliot begins to rock the fingers in and out past his lips, feeling all his blood rushing away from his head.

“Mediocre technique,” Eliot lies, knowing it will hurt Quentin’s feelings just the way he likes. “Your introductory courses should have taught you better. Oh, don’t make that face, Mister Coldwater. You must have done this before. Your grades being what they are, there’s no way you passed the prerequisites to get into my class… No. You’ve been skating by with _this_ ,” Eliot accuses. “With this tight little pout and batting those bashful little eyes, haven’t you?”

Quentin makes a shameful little squeaking sound, sucking harder without any other urging at all. Eliot draws his hand back and wipes his fingers clean against the front of Quentin’s shirt. There’s a bulge in Eliot’s trousers on full display as he eases back into his chair, self-satisfied and folding his hands over the table.

“I imagine you know what comes next?”

Quentin hangs his head, nodding once.

“Good. Now get on your knees.”

Quentin lowers to the ground under Eliot’s strict gaze. He halts for a second, eyes wild and searching like he really can’t believe he’s about to do this, about to debase himself as commanded. But then he slips from view tucking himself under the wooden desk where he fits perfectly, where he belongs.

He’s breathing so hard that Eliot can feel right where he is even if he can’t see him. Rapid, heated gasps against his slacks and the inside of his thighs. As much as he wants to see Quentin’s face, he knows half the thrill is how impersonal and hidden the other man must feel. So small and used as he’s mouthing against fabric with his nose pressed against the zipper. 

Eliot can’t help himself, nor can he wait for Quentin’s shaking hands. He reaches down past his lap, blind and angled where he feels for Quentin’s hair. The sharp tug is a warning, and it is one well received. Quentin has the zipper drawn open and Eliot’s cock out not a moment later.

Eliot shudders as he feels a few tentative stripes of tongue from root to tip. Followed by uncertain movements, testing Eliot’s reaction to see just what he might want. There is something about Quentin playing shy with his dick that gets him even harder than before. Knowing his little Q is still so deep in the scene, it makes Eliot even more hungry, more voracious.

“Mister Coldwater, you’ll have to do better than that,” he condescends, toneless as he can manage. “A lot better, in fact. Use your—”

Quentin gets his mouth on him at last, cutting Eliot off as his head tilts back. Quentin is always tight, wet heat on the inside. Earnest and sloppy. Pledging his submission with every drag and suck and long-suppressed breath working his mouth and tongue.

Closing his eyes, he eases back in his chair; unknots his tie and slides out of his blazer to better luxuriate in the sensation. Quentin’s courage is gaining, evident in the slight grazing catch of teeth that leaves Eliot buckled to his elbows over the desk. He can barely constrain his groan into a closed fist.

Quentin doesn’t respond to the sudden noise or the jolt running through Eliot’s body. He simply continues to bob up and down along the flesh owning all his attention. He gets like this; enraptured and pliant, zoned-in on Eliot, and only Eliot. Not caring how he must look just then; his face even redder than before, lips wet as Eliot remembers. The lewd gulping sounds he makes swallowing around Eliot’s cock carry throughout the lecture hall, echoing off amplification charms in the ceiling.

When Quentin invariably does pull away to breathe, he improvises with his hands. Trades off his lips for long, heady strokes starting from the base working down to the tip. The tip where Eliot could still feel Quentin’s mouth not an inch away, sucking in wet air.

“Could it be we’ve finally found something you’re good at, Mister Coldwater?” He knows Quentin hears him, can feel it in the delicious vibrations of his whimpering humiliation. “Maybe I misjudged you. You clearly would excel as a teaching assistant… Perfect for kneeling under my desk as I grade papers from the _real_ magicians.”

Then Eliot has Quentin by the hair again. This time he lifts his hips with shallow thrusts, feeding Quentin his dick with greater control. Quentin allows it, welcomes it, holding tighter to Eliot. His hands bunch up at Eliot’s knees, wrinkling his fitted couture. So close, so close, Eliot just needs—

One particular thrust sends Quentin sputtering aside. Eliot hears a half muffled-cough, but seemingly doesn’t let it slow him down. He dives right back in, sucking and gagging until Eliot forces him back by the shoulder. 

He taps searchingly to Quentin’s cheek, two fingers, and waits for the all good signal to be returned. 

They had argued about needing one. With Quentin so new to it all, he couldn’t understand when or why they would ever need so many diverse and specific communications. But Quentin has never really seen himself like this, had never felt it from Eliot’s end. Felt his control slip out of hand and right into Eliot’s palm.

Eliot is counting the seconds, gets well into the teens when he feels a squeeze to one of his ankles. But it’s taken too long.

It happens sometimes. Quentin reaches his limit, his stamina waning before Eliot gets the chance to come. Skill or no— and fuck, Quentin’s mouth was good at what it did— there was only so long he could strain and gasp and keep pace around the length of Eliot’s dick before it was all too much. His own enthusiasm aside, it was Eliot’s responsibility to know when his Q’s eyes were bigger than his stomach… or at least not as practiced as his throat.

Eliot gives his own signal. A snap of the fingers. “That’s enough. Get on your feet.”

Quentin bolts up, leveraging himself against the table with his forearms. “No please? I can, I can, just let me get you off I, need to…” Quentin is around the desk, babbling and pulling at the hem of Eliot’s suit jacket. “Please, I can take it, Eliot, just let me—”

It’s a hard offer to turn down; having him knelt between his leg again with those dangerously red lips and glassy wet eyes.

“ _Professor_ ,” he corrects, grasping Quentin by the back of the neck. 

A sliver of recognition slides back into Quentin’s eyes. “Professor Waugh, please… I’m sorry… I can do better—”

“On that, I agree,” Eliot interrupts. He tuts slowly, stalling to let Quentin breathe — Little Q never did know what was good for him. “While your _thirst_ for learning can’t be denied — It’s clear how badly you want it. But I’m afraid if you can’t keep up with your studies, how can I be sure I’ve taught you a lesson?

Quentin bows his head, a sly smile growing. He had a love-hate relationship with Eliot’s puns.

Dragging Quentin to standing, he runs down the front of his chest to the front of his buckle. Quentin is rock hard.

“Is this the problem?” He squeezes the tented fabric. Quentin scrambles to hold onto the desk behind him, knuckles white as Eliot unzips his pants. “Is this why you can’t focus on your readings? Have you been sitting in the lecture hall, dick stiff and aching in your seat?”

“Professor, please!” 

“I don’t like distractions during my lectures.” His pulls on his dick are a little too tight, the way Quentin likes. Hot, hot friction just shy of too much, too fast. Quentin’s whole body is winding up tight, leaning forward to be ravished. Eliot growls in his ear, harsh and ragged; “Tell me, Mister Coldwater, the next time you’re not paying attention, I should drag you up in front of the whole class? Make an example of you?” Quentin’s eyes squeeze shut. “Would that finally teach you something … if the whole school saw you like this, led around by your cock and begging for it?”

Quentin shakes his head. “No.”

Eliot’s fingers falter for the slightest of seconds, thrown. Even the free floating papers seem to wait.

“But maybe if you bend me over the table. That might do the trick.” 

Eliot heaves them around, and Quentin is bottomless and bare-assed, face down before he knows what hit him. “You sneaky, mouthy, pushy little—”

There is a spell Eliot knows by heart to prep Quentin, open and slicked and relaxed, but Eliot chatters his way through it twice before he gets it right. He knows it works when Quentin arches against him, mewling and stammering with his whole body. Before Eliot can line up against Quentin’s tight opening, he leans in, catches the shell of his ear with his teeth and says, “try not to come all over my desk. Those papers turned in from _actual_ magicians still need to be graded.”

Quentin moans red-faced and ashamed and he nods, fucking nods, basking in Eliot’s cruel jab. Eliot can’t help what comes next. Leaning down, he kisses him, hastily claiming those parted bruised lips. Quentin’s craning his neck so Eliot can lick into his mouth, spurred on by the intimate knowledge of just where that mouth has been. Quentin gasps his name, not his title after, and, well— Eliot can’t really be blamed for biting down on his bottom lip to remind him just what’s a play. The noise the nip elicits is too good to pass up, so Eliot’s mouth drags around to the back of Quentin’s neck, his shoulder blades, to the meat of his shoulder when he bites down harder.

That’ll leave a mark.

Quentin jumps so hard it jostles the desk, knocking over its contents. Nothing touches the ground; not the mug, not the books, all the papers levitate and pens spiral-like spinning tops in mid-air. Overhead the lights are flickering in tandem to Quentin’s heaving chest. Eliot could be doing it, or both of them. It’s electric; the magic let loosed and unwieldy between them. 

Eliot pushes all the air out from Quentin’s lungs with the first thrust. Quentin half-crawls further up the desk, one knee hitching up to keep him level, widening his stance so Eliot can draw back and push in again. Eliot has his hands at the crook of Quentin’s waist, leaving indent marks where his fingers have been. Quentin will be a map of bruises in the morning, a touch-and-trace playback of all the liberties he let Eliot take.

Eliot’s favorite thing about fucking Quentin, he never just lies there. His back arches off the table, so tightly strung and frantic as he struggles back, pushing his ass up to meet Eliot’s dick where it disappears inside of him; the perfect magic trick.

Elliot leans down one last time, breathes over Quentin’s neck.

“Can you see them, Quentin? All of them sitting in their seats, practicing real magic at their desks…” Quentin’s head slowly rises. He blinks heavily over his shoulder, looking back and watching Eliot fuck him. He’s unfocused, panting, pink all over and so close Eliot can taste it. He yanks at Quentin’s hair and forces him to watch the empty lecture hall. “All of them are studying, watching, taking notes… while you’re at the front of the class, taking _me_ good and hard like the neediest little teacher’s pet—”

The world contracts. Quentin shakes and screams, tightening around Eliot until he’s a fine point of pleasure, of release.

It always takes a long time for Quentin to come back down. His body clenching and unclenching in the aftershocks as Eliot hesitantly backs away. He zips himself up and marvels at the mess he’s made of Quentin. All the mortifying invitations and indulgences he begged of Eliot leaving him wrecked and boneless. 

“Congratulations, Coldwater,” Eliot’s voice dripping with practiced disdain. “You’ve made the grade at last… Though points off for coming on my desk.”

“Sorry, professor,” Quentin whispers. He sounds far away, raw and recuperating.

“I’ll expect to see you keep up the good work.” Eliot straightens his tie. With a hand wave, the chalkboard erases itself and the desk clears of all sundries and evidence. “In fact, I’ll expect you regularly, in my private office hours. We wouldn’t want your grade to slip after midterms, now would we?”

“No, professor,” Quentin murmurs, curled up against the desk, still naked and small and aching. He hasn’t moved since the other man pulled off of him — out of him. And that is right where Professor Waugh leaves him, as an afterthought he traipses away from, toward the doors and out of the hall, quite finished here.

*

“For future reference, I’m not a huge fan of scenes where I exit the room,” Eliot confesses after.

“Now who’s being picky?” Quentin still sounds slurred, but he’s more present as he leans on Eliot who guides him back into the Cottage. They’ve had this disagreement before, how Quentin never seemed to want Eliot hovering over him just after a scene. He wanted to relish it longer, feel used up and dirty for as long as he could.

“I’m just saying I wrung you out like a towel. What if you needed me while is as gone—”

“In the time it took for you to leave and wander back in?”

Eliot can’t hide his offense. “I didn’t wander back in, I precisely timed my return for heightened dramatic and erotic effect.”

“Sure you did,” Quentin smiles. He waits for his boyfriend to unlock their bedroom door with that fingerprinting spell they cooked up over their Illusions homework. “Hey, El?”

“Hm?” Eliot’s got the door open. They slide inside and make for their bed. 

“I didn’t know you were going to say… that you were gonna say all those things, and I…”

Eliot suppresses a wince. “Too much?”

“God no. It was _perfect_ … I didn’t know you could be so—”

“Well, I never met a professor who could shut up. Or one who didn’t have a bloated ego.” He chuckles against Quentin. They’re right back where they started. Under the covers, confessing to each other. “But sometimes I think… you shouldn’t let me be so rough with you, Q.”

“Oh, shut up,” Quentin groans. “I love it. And you love it, too.” Quentin levels it like an accusation and an enticement all rolled together. “You just feel guilty after when you’re remembering what you said.”

The half dozen times he breathed into Quentin’s ear that he was a ‘perfect little slut’ rattle around in his brain. He shakes it off when Quentin kisses him before making a pillow out of his shoulder.

“Guilty? Me? Banish the thought,” Eliot protests, perhaps too much. “After all, only one person in this bed is capable of shame and it isn’t me.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

“Says the guy who can’t fess up to what he actually wants,” Eliot counters, drumming his fidgeting fingers up and down Quentin's collarbones. He wants to continue, hammer in his point, lord all of Quentin's hold-over fanboy shyness over his head, but instead he pauses. He has to get this right. 

“Q, you know you can ask me for anything. I would never say no. I don’t think I could ever say no to you.” Eliot doesn't like the disbelieving noise Quentin makes into his pillow. “Yeah, I know you think that can’t be true but I promise,” Eliot lays several kisses to the nape of his neck, “I promise you there’s no low my depraved heart wouldn't sink to for you. So, just ask, just be honest, and I’ll take care of you. No big scary confessions required. It’s not like you being an incurable nerd will scare me off.”

Quentin’s head pops up, brow quirked, deadly serious. “Wait, does anything include Mayakovski? Is that back on the table, because you know I really love the Russian accent—”

Tender moment snapped in half, Eliot reaches under the blankets to pinch Quentin’s ass, swearing they’ll both take vows of celibacy if that name is _ever_ uttered in this room again.

_**fin.** _


End file.
